


Tales Of A Washed Up Nothing

by TheBlackLagoon



Series: Are You There Maturin? It's Me, Richie [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: But He Gets Better, Gen, He has some stuff to work through first, IT Chapter Two Spoilers, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Richie Tozier relaizes his self worth and gets the man of his dreams, eventually, my mom talks about her books all the time so I know they were popular in the 80's, unabashed Judy Blum references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-07 13:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20818304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBlackLagoon/pseuds/TheBlackLagoon
Summary: In which Richie watches too much Cheers, Sees a therapist, Gets a pet turtle and Saves Edward Kaspbrak’s life by playing Street Fighter.





	Tales Of A Washed Up Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> I literally told myself after seeing IT: Chp. 2 I wouldn't write any fanfic about it, but here we are :P I had a lot of fun writing this piece, and I've already got the skeleton outline for Part two, so it should be out next weekend. I hope ya'll enjoy this, please comment your opinion's, they are always appreciated.  
Also, shout out to my betas, Tumblr users flowerbritts and soldsoulpunk, they definitely gave me the confidence to post this.  
Edit: This now has some amazing art by the lovely Koryandr and I'm ecstatic, seriously it's fantastic, please check it out [here](https://koryandr.tumblr.com/post/189873371830/but-young-richie-just-stands-to-look-at-him-hes)

People always seem to think that it’s the first night that’s the hardest. Richie is _ sure _Bill’s written something like that in one of his books. Traumatic events fade, people move on, and life keeps going. Night one is just a jumping-off point for the suck to get less sucky.

  
Night one had passed four months ago, it was now night 125 in the _ After _ , and Richie couldn’t sleep. He hadn’t slept well for four months.

About two weeks into _ After _ , Richie had stopped actually going to bed. He found he was more likely to get _ some _ sleep if he happened to doze on the couch. A new nightly routine unfolded from there. After three glasses of cheap-as-fuck wine, Richie stumbled to the couch, already decked out it in mountains of blankets and pillows, and put on the dumbest thing he could find on Netflix. He hadn’t thought he’d ever like _ Cheers _ , but lo and behold, Sam and Diane had become his new best friends. ** **  
** **

But on night 125 there was no dozing, no half-asleep rests. Sam and Diane were fighting, because they were _ always _ fighting, and Richie wanted to throw the remote at the T.V because _ obviously they were in love _ , and _ god why couldn’t people just get over themselves, _ and _ fuck Eddie would have hated watching this stupid _-

  
See, the bad thing about being lonely is that now Richie actually _ remembered _ he was alone. _ Before _ , he could always tell himself he preferred to be the lone wolf. He liked his privacy outside of semi-fame, two was a crowd, etc, etc. Except- that was his fear wasn’t it? What he’d left behind in Derry, and gotten back gift wrapped with _ Fuck You _ written in big gold lettering.  
  
He hated his too big apartment, with its minimalistic design and décor, which just made it feel more impossibly empty. His giant bed with a one-person indent. His toothbrush holder with a single toothbrush. The whole lack of another.  
  
He mostly hated himself. Which, _ big surprise _, Richie hadn’t forgotten that one after Derry. He definitely did not need help remembering.

** **

Right now he hated Sam and Diane, and their fucking bickering, the laugh track, the sexist jokes. How he couldn’t call Edward Kaspbrak and talk shit about a show that had ended several decades ago because it was too late to remember him. 

** **

Night 125 was a bitch to stay awake through, but it was finally, _ finally _Richie’s jumping-off point for the suck, to get less sucky. 

** **

**~~~**

  
It starts with a phone call. A thing Richie had been getting less and less of over the past couple of months. People had started to realize after their 15th dropped call, Richie wasn’t really in a chatting mood. He felt the worst about it when it came to the other Losers. He’d text them of course, make sure they knew he wasn’t like, dead in a ditch, but he was worried that the minute he actually picked up, they were going to know. Know about insomnia, the drinking, the Cheers marathoning. Really, they all had there lives to get back to. Bev and Ben and their boat, Mike and his traveling, Bill and his actress wife. Richie had had a life in the _ Before _, kind of, so he understood. No one wanted to be reminded of the Eeyore of the Hundred Acre’s Wood gang.

** **

It wasn’t one of the Loser’s calling this morning though, and after his phone had buzzed for the fiftieth goddamn time, Richie answered. It was his agent, probably the only person left with a real reason to call him, and who he immediately told to _ fuck off _. 

** **

_ Pushing people away Tozier? Really makes the loneliness feel purposeful right? _

** **

Sheila Abdul was not a person Richie had ever really tried to mess with, joking or otherwise. She did the messing with mostly, when it came to harassing Richie about his shows, and onto T.V interviews looking at least halfway decent. She’d started their business relationship not with a question, but a statement. She’d seen a show of his at a shitty little comedy club in Chinatown of all places, had said she wanted to be his agent, and so she was. Richie understood better why he liked that about her now. 

** **

Of course, this meant she was a lot harder to get rid of than say, your other grieving childhood friends. She’d told him _ no, you fuck off _ right back, then stated, obnoxiously loud at 8:30 in the morning, she was calling a taxi and she’d be at his place in 20. If he wasn’t so goddamn tired, he’d have probably admitted to missing her.

** **

It only took Sheila 15 minutes to make it to his apartment, and she walked in with his spare keys clutched like a shiv in her hand. Richie was only slightly worried about his safety.

It took her a moment to catch sight of him, slumped low in his couch nest, _ Cheers _blasting through the T.V speakers. She stops dead in her tracks to gaze at him, in all of his sweat pantsed glory. 

** **

“I need a fucking coffee,” she mutters, before turning away and heading straight into his kitchen. 

** **

“Lovely seeing you too,” Richie quips, dragging himself up, and slowly disentangling his limbs from a labyrinth of blankets. He shuffles to the island counter, vaguely aware that he is shirtless, unshowered, and reeking of alcohol, but not particularly caring. Sheila obviously does, wrinkling her nose at him, as she angrily slams his kitchen cabinets open and closed. She’s a real peach.

** **

As she makes her coffee, Richie takes the time to really assess the state of his kitchen. To mince words, it does not look like the kitchen of a living, breathing human. It looks more like a photo from a crime scene, in which Richie has been dead for four months and has only just now been found after his neighbors started complaining of the smell. 

** **

Boxes of wine line the back counter, because yes he is classy enough to splurge like that on boxed wine. A mixture of dishes, paper plates and take out containers have been piled around and in the sink. Not to mention the smell, which Richie is pretty sure is bad enough, actual stink lines should be rising from the mess. But Sheila just makes her coffee, pulling out a solitary clean mug, and pouring herself a very large quantity of plain, black. 

** **

Sheila drinks her coffee, and Richie prepares himself for the onslaught. 

** **

“When was the last time you left your apartment?” Sheila places her empty mug on the counter between them. Richie keeps his eyes on the bright lipstick stain she’d left on it, instead of her. 

“Does stepping outside for a smoke count? Because my back porch has been seeing a lot of attention recently,” Richie jokes, a laugh stuck fast in his throat, like a cancerous lump closing off his airways. 

** **

_ Why did he have to feel like crying all the fucking time? She’s going to leave, is that what you want? She’s going to leave, she’s going to leave, she _-

  
“Rich, I don’t really know what the fuck happened to you, and to be honest I don’t necessarily care. What I do care about is the fact that my top client hasn’t shown up to his past 7 gigs. So what do I need to do to get you back out there?”

“Booze, prostitutes, and more booze,” he smiles wanly at her across the counter. She meets him with an unimpressed frown. He knows it was forced, she knows it was forced. Neither of them moves, and the T.V continues to play the fucking _ Cheers _ marathon in the living room.  
  
“I’m getting you a therapist,” Sheila says suddenly, picking up her discarded phone and spare keys and twisting away from the counter. Richie continues to stare, and only stare, until she’s about halfway to the door with her phone to her ear.  
  
“Whoa, wait- that’s not- I was joking! I’m a comedian, we kid around sometimes Sheil!” He grabs her arm and she stops suddenly enough that he lets go immediately. She gives him a hard look. A real bone-deep, soul searching _ look _ , and Richie feels so bare, open and raw that he has to take a step back. She sighs then, looking down at her feet, and Richie for a moment, can see how tired she is. ** **  
** **

_ Who’s fault is that Trashmouth? _

  
“You look bad Rich, and your apartment smells like shit, and you’ve got 205 missed messages on your phone. I don’t know the full story, but I’ve read the news. Three missing persons and an escaped mental patient in Derry, Maine. All while on your little reunion trip? I know _ something _ happened, and I’m not expecting you to tell me, but I want you to talk to _ someone _,” Sheila is pleading, like actually fucking pleading with him.

** **

_ Looks like you tricked someone else into caring for you. _

** **

Richie does the most adult thing he’s done in a very long time. He tells her he’ll think about it.

** **

**~~~**

** **

In the end, Richie doesn’t have much to think about. He needs sleep, and at this rate, he definitely isn’t getting any closer to a decent night's rest. Also, Diane and Sam have split again, and he is kind of fucking sick of Norm complaining about his ex-wife. Maybe therapy would help with this weird _ Cheers _obsession too. It seems like enough of a reason to try it out.

** **

He calls Sheila later that afternoon, and he listens to the line ring while staring forlornly at the piles of growing trash in his kitchen, wondering if he can muster up enough energy to clean today. Then the line clicks, and Sheila is on the other end berating some poor fuck in her office, and half-listening as he explains that _ yes, he’ll try therapy _. She seems happy about that at least, and she tells him she’d already made an appointment for Ten’Oclock the next day. 

** **

If anything, she was surely an efficient lady. 

** **

He doesn’t end up cleaning the kitchen, doesn’t think he can stomach it all at once. So he starts with the living room. Cleans the coffee table of half-eaten Tai takeout, crusting mugs, and like five dirty socks. He sweeps, which, weirdly he’s sure he’d never even done before things had gotten bad, but it’s therapeutic nonetheless. He goes about the task of folding all his couch blankets into a nice pile, and then finally moves his ass back to his _ actual _bedroom. 

** **

As he lays down he remembers the several sweat-soaked nightmares he’d had the first couple of weeks and is pretty sure he needs to change the sheets- but baby steps or whatever. 

** **

He doesn’t fall asleep. He hadn’t really expected to, but it would have been a nice surprise. At two a.m he grabs his laptop and pulls up Netflix with a sigh. Season 5 of _ Cheers _ it is then.

** **

**~~~**

** **

He calls it quits at 8:00, shutting his laptop while running a hand through his unremarkably greasy hair, and decides he needs a shower. 

** **

Richie has never been good at keeping showers quick, and _ really _, he lives in L.A he should be more contentious about that shit, but that doesn’t stop him from staying under the spray until his fingertips wrinkle and his skin flares a bright red from the heat. When he finally does step out into the steam soaked bathroom it’s 8:40, and while he towels off his now freshly shampooed hair, he texts Sheila asking for this new therapist's address. 

She texts him back at 9:15 while he’s scrounging around his fridge for something non-takeout, and actually edible. 

** **

_ Eddie would be so pissed- _

** **

The address isn’t more than twenty minutes away, but Richie’s been living in L.A for over a decade and knows without a doubt to be on time he’ll need to leave 20 minutes early. So he orders himself an Uber, grabs a box of half-empty Ritz crackers for breakfast, and is out the door by 9:25.

** **

At 9:55 he arrives at the nondescript office building, and with the fear of paying more than the most likely high amount Sheila had shelled out for this appointment, Richie shoves the mostly empty box of Ritz crackers to his Uber driver, Jason, and books it. 

** **

He arrives at the therapist's door at 10:01, his hair a mess, and Margaritaville T-shirt wrinkled horribly from where he’d picked it off the floor that morning. He knocks on the heavy wooden door and opens it before the answer can come through. 

** **

_ Oh god, he was nervous. That’s what this was, wasn't it? Palms sweating just like prom night when he and Ed had ditched- _

** **

“Richard Tozier?” The woman Richie is facing is older than he’d assumed she’d be. In her late fifties, with crows feet and laugh lines making her face look- well, nice, he supposes. She looks like a very nice lady.

** **

“The one and only- are you, Jennifer Moskowitz?” he asks stepping into the room tentatively. There's no fainting couch, which he’d kind of been hoping for, but there are two cushy looking armchairs, and he makes a move for the one closest to the door.

** **

“Yes, but no need for formalities Mr. Tozier, you can call me Jen,” she stands from behind her desk, smiling, her grey streaked, blond ponytail swishing back and forth, back and forth, making it hard for Richie _ not _to think of those dumb old black and white Hypnotist films. It’s probably just the paranoia talking though. 

** **

“Just as long as you don’t call me Mr. Tozier again- that makes me sound old as fuck. Everybody calls me Richie,” he says, pasting on a rakish smile, that Jen only huffs a laugh at. She takes a seat across from him, and she’s not even holding a notepad or anything, but that almost makes him feel- worse? 

** **

_ Like she can already tell from a look what's wrong with him, and she doesn't need to take notes because it’s all just there. She knows, she knows, she knows- _

** **

“Well, now that introductions are taken care of, why do you think you’re here Richie?” She smiles, her laugh lines creasing, and Richie wants to tell her.

_I_ _ _f_ there ever was such a loaded question. What’ll it be Rich? The shit parents? The 27 years of supernaturally repressed memories that keep coming back? The gay thing? Eddie- _

** **

“My agent recommended you, so thought I’d give sharing my feelings a try,” he smiles back, tight and strained, and she eyes him seriously for a moment.

** **

“She said you hadn’t been sleeping recently, why don’t we start with that.”

** **

He doesn’t tell her everything. He really doesn’t even tell her half of it. But he tells her the important stuff. He tells her about the Losers. Their years apart and eventual reunion with a few missing faces. He doesn’t mention Stan or Eddie by name, or how they had, well- she seems to glean enough from what he leaves unsaid.

“It’s understandable that you don’t want to face their concern yet Richie, it may have been a shared trauma, but all people handle things differently.”

** **

“Yeah, but it’s shitty isn’t it? I should talk to them, because I’m not the only one who- Like of all the people in the world, they would understand the most, right?”

“Not necessarily. From what you’ve told me of your friends is that they seem like a fairly resilient group, and I’m not saying they don’t all have their own troubles, but it’s not a bad or _ shitty _thing to feel like you’ve had it the worst.” Jen’s really laying it on thick for this bit, Richie can tell, her eyes going all soft and supportive. It would maybe be helpful if it didn't feel like such a fucking lie. He tells her as much.

** **

“It doesn’t have to feel true, not right now. Moving forward doesn’t happen overnight, but it’s important that you hear it Richie.” She says this with a very pointed look in his direction, and when he just shrugs in response she just gives a little nod and takes a metaphorical step back. 

** **

“Before we end today I want to suggest something you might find kind of funny,” she leans back in her chair, her features softening into humour. This is steadier ground for Richie.

** **

“I love funny, funny’s my job,” he snarks, and she smiles, teeth and all at him.

** **

“I want you to get a pet.”

** **

“What? Like a Pomeranian?”

** **

_ Shut up, shut up, shut up- _

** **

“Whatever you’d like Richie. I think you have trouble remembering to take care of yourself because it’s not evident enough that you _ should _. I believe the responsibility of owning and caring for a pet in a way, could remind you to take care of yourself more often.” 

** **

“What so- if I feed the dog, I’ll remember to feed myself?”

** **

“Exactly. Or you could brush this suggestion aside as useless psychobabble, which is what I know you’re thinking. But consider it Rich,” she finishes, eyeing him seriously because she just happens to be really good at doing that with her tiny little black-rimmed spectacles. 

** **

He doesn’t say he will, verbally at least, just gives her an abortive nod. And then it’s over, she talks briefly about their next session (which Sheila had already set up) and she prescribes him low dose sleeping meds. He could almost kiss her for that specifically. 

** **

_ Too bad you’re such a flaming homosexual Tozier. _

** **

He leaves Jen’s office feeling, not better exactly, but lighter. Hopeful. Maybe someday he’ll get around to talking about Eddie. He thinks Jen would enjoy those stories.

** **

**~~~**

** **

Richie had most definitely intended on getting a dog. He’d walked into the pet store with the fully formed idea of picking up a puppy and walking out with it. How then, Richie exited the store not 15 minutes later with a scaly reptile tucked away in a cardboard box under his arm, he has absolutely no idea. 

** **

And now, _ now _ he was having a staring contest with an animal he isn’t even sure _ has _eyelids. If only Jen could see him now. 

** **

“So, are you more of a Raphael kind of turtle or a Michelangelo?” Richie asks after a solid 20 minutes of silence, a new record for him for sure. The turtle does not answer, _ thankfully _.

** **

“Hmm, strong but silent, I see- Leonardo it is then,” Richie taps the countertop thoughtfully, and Leo looks back, his tiny little eyes gazing soulfully up at him. At least Richie assumes it’s soulfully, either that or he’s just- staring. Because he’s a fucking _ turtle _.

** **

“Sorry about the poor accommodations. I wasn’t really planning on bringing you back here. Not that you aren’t a total catch of a pet but- you’re a turtle,” Richie sighs, placing his head in his hands suddenly incredibly exhausted. He knows he still needs to set up Leo’s enclosure, make sure he has a suitable amount of food and water, and he also definitely needs to clean his kitchen. But he’s been more active today then he has in literally months, so the idea of all that seems- too much. 

** **

He starts with Leo’s enclosure.

** **

He does it because he’s not an asshole, and he knows he can’t just leave the little guy in his tiny cardboard box all night. It only takes him like twenty minutes of youtube searches to find a video on how to properly set up the heat lamp, and everything else is kind of just setting up the rock plateaus, water, and leafy seaweed stuff. And because he really couldn’t help from buying one dumb knick-knack at the pet store, he finishes up by placing a little pirates chest under the water. 

** **

He places Leo in, and he does a little tentative swim around. Noses at the treasure chest, then climbs up out of the water onto the rocks and looks up at Richie. He definitely feels like crying. But happy, a happy cry. Kind of. It’s difficult to explain.

** **

He watches Leo enjoy his new home placed on a fashionable yet basically unused cabinet set in his living room, and Richie feels again, just for a moment, a bit lighter. A bit more hopeful. He remembers, as he fills the little food bowl with dried maggots, he's only had like 15 Ritz crackers today, and he should definitely get himself some actual food. 

** **

As he waits for his Chinese to arrive he tackles the kitchen. Or- he collects the trash and organizes the dirty dishes into neat-ish piles. He really can’t do more than that without feeling nauseous. It looks better after though, he has like 75% more countertop then he did beforehand, so Richie takes it as a win. 

** **

He gets his food at 6:30, and because old habits die hard, he watches five episodes of _ Cheers _. He laughs at some of the jokes, actually tastes some of the food he shoves in his mouth and by the time the theme song starts playing for the sixth episode, Richie realizes he wants to go to bed. Like actually to his bed. 

** **

So he does. He cleans up his mess, turns off the T.V and halfheartedly waves goodnight to Leo. The pills Jen had prescribed are sitting on his bedside table, and he eyes them a moment, mind jumping to-

_They’re fucking gazebos, Richie!_

** **

He snatches the bottle up and swallows the one recommended pill dry. With shaking hands he twists the bottle’s cap back on, and shoves it into night stand’s top drawer. 

** **

_ Out of sight, out of mind. Is that all Eddie is to you now? _

** **

Richie turns off the light, crawls into bed and tries to focus on his breathing. A thing Jen had said he should practice. _ It helps with Insomnia _.

** **

Exhale. Breath in for four beats. Hold it seven. Exhale for eight beats. And repeat. 

** **

And _ Repeat _.

_ And Repeat _.

** **

Richie falls asleep at 8:00. Then he wakes up on the ground.

** **

He’s face down, and for a second he thinks _ I fucking fell off the bed _ until he realizes turning himself. There is no bed. No room either. No- no anything. 

** **

For a moment he just stares, laying there on the ground that doesn’t actually seem to be ground because it blends in with everything else. The black endless everything else. 

** **

Then he catches sight of a pair of shoes. Familiar ratty-looking tennis shoes, with two different sets of frayed laces. There are little stars sharpied onto the heels, messy constellations drawn in boredom. They’re familiar because he had the same exact pair. Twenty seven years ago. 

** **

Richie scrambles backwards, sitting up so quickly he feels dizzy and sick, and there standing mute, is a 13 year old Richie Tozier. Beige cargo shorts, obnoxiously bright Hawaiian print shirt, shitty, thick-framed glasses. It’s all there, a face Richie has seen time and time again. He’s just standing there watching, and Richie isn’t sure what to do. 

** **

It has to be a nightmare, it _ has _to be. At any second, young him will start to like disintegrate or some shit. Start melting like the Ark of the Covenant has been opened. Because that’s what Richie’s dreams are now. Disgusting, and horrible, and all IT’s fault.

** **

But Young Richie just stands to look at him. He’s looking with an expression he is at least 95% sure he’s never, _ ever _ made in his entire life, and then he’s opening his cupped hand and offering Richie a token. An actual token-token, and suddenly from behind _ other-him _, a dead Street Fighter console blares to life. When that had appeared Richie was clueless.

** **

Neither of them moves. 

** **

“Is this- this feels real,” Richie says, but _ other-him _ continues to hold out his token quietly, and the game continues to play out, tinny and loud. 

** **

“Holy shit, I’m going to regret this,” Richie mutters, and pushing himself off the ground, that's not really ground, he snatches the token from the kid's hand. 

** **

Unfortunately, he knows this console. Had spent whole summers playing on it. He doesn’t really want to touch it now. But _ young-him _ just keeps staring, and _ staring _ , until Richie pushes the dumb token into the game, and picks multiplayer mode. He scoots away as _ other-him _ moves to join, and then they select their characters. 

** **

Richie picks Ryu because he always picks Ryu, the guys a classic. _ Other-him _ is left with Ken. 

** **

“Not to say I’m not flattered but- _ why _do you look like me?” Instead of answering Young Him makes a complicated maneuver leaving Ryu halfway to a KO, and Richie wondering how he’d gotten so bad at this game. 

** **

“Cool, we’re playing the silent game. Which I’ll have you know, is why I’m 100% sure you’re not actually younger me,” Richie mumbles, his hands fumbling horribly over the red buttons. Ryu takes another nasty hit, young-him staring passively at the screen as he pulls combo moves after combo moves out of thin air. A sudden bizarre thought strikes Richie, and because he’s him, he has to ask. 

** **

“Are you- _ God _?” 

** **

_ Other-him _ looks up suddenly, and when their eyes meet, it is a shock to Richie’s system, like a live wire had been attached to his brain. 

** **

The machine beeps, and Richie turns back quickly to see that Ryu had finally succumbed, Ken standing triumphant over the crumpled form of Richie’s little pixelated fighter. 

** **

And then Richie is alone. In his bed. 

** **

Alone, in his bed, in his L.A apartment, definitely _ not _ playing Street Fighter with Possibly-Probably-God. He rolls over to his nightstand and fumbles in the dark for his glasses and phone. It’s 4:13 in the morning, and Richie Tozier had managed to stay asleep for 7 hours straight. And because he is a giant child, he lets out a _ Whoop _ of joy, and falls back into his sweat stinking pillow and just smiles. Weird dreams be damned. He’d fucking slept well. 

** **

**~~~**

Richie has another appointment with Jen two days later, he has the same dream two more times. They each follow the same pattern. Richie wakes up, is handed a token by his silent child clone, they play Street Fighter, and Richie loses. It doesn’t bother him as much as it probably should, but he’s just too excited to be sleeping again to care much. It’s not like the dreams are horrific, or some PTSD induced freak out. They just, happen. Richie’s not going to complain.

** **

Jen asks him how he is, like she cares, and Richie kind of believes she does. They talk about how cool the weather has been, it’s the end of September and Richie’s had to actually put on more than a T-shirt and Jeans which is _ so weird for L.A isn’t it? _

Then Richie mentions Leo, and Jen is _ ecstatic _. 

** **

“What made you choose a turtle do you think?” she asks in that incredibly therapist way she has about her. Richie finds it kind of endearing, how it’s not a role she’s playing, she’s just genuinely curious about his thought process. 

** **

“I don’t really know, I hadn’t exactly _ planned _on getting him. But he’s nice, and calming I guess,” he says with a shrug, and Jen just nods smiling. 

** **

“That’s lovely Richie, it really is.” 

** **

“You are not a hard lady to impress Jen,” She laughs and shakes her head at that, and Richie just grins. Jen sobers up quickly though, as she shifts in her chair to what Richie thinks is her “serious” sit.

** **

“Now, we spoke briefly at the end of our last session about how you’ve felt some guilt over lack of communication with your friends. I want to reiterate by saying you don’t need to feel guilty about the struggles you’ve faced, but I know that's difficult for you to believe. I was thinking that maybe to take the pressure off of you, just try calling _ one _of them. The conversation doesn’t have to be longer than a minute, and you could just discuss the weather. I have a feeling it could help open you up to more honest communications, but at your pace.” Jen’s voice is steady and she keeps eye contact with Richie as she speaks. He lets out a shaky breath before replying.

** **

“I just- I feel like they might ask questions that I’m not- ready to chat about yet.”

** **

“And you don’t have to answer them, not unless you feel it's right. If you’ve been friends with these people as long as you say you have, then they won’t mind Richie.” 

** **

After they’ve wrapped up, Richie thinks about that. Thinks about why he's been so afraid to talk to them. It’s kind of hard to admit, Jen, a woman who’s never even met any of the Losers, seems to get them more than Richie has these past couple of months. He supposes a new perspective is what he’s paying so much for. 

** **

**~~~**

** **

He calls Bev first.

It’s late when he does it, but he has a feeling she’ll be up, and he’s right. The line clicks after ringing twice, and Bev’s voice light and so, so careful, comes through.

“Richie?”

“Hey Bev,” he can’t help but smile as he says it. It’s been too long, he let it go too long. 

“What are you up to at- 2:15?” He can hear her trying to act casual, trying not to push, and he decides then and there he’s not gonna make her.

** **

“Just uh, thinking about you- and Ben, thought I’d give you a real call.”

** **

“I’m- we’re doing well Rich. It’s really great to hear from you.’

** **

“Yeah, my therapist suggested I start having more ‘_ open forms of communication _’ with the people I’m close to. Thought I’d give it a try,” he stands from where he’s been slumped on his couch, needing to move, needing to get rid of this new nervous energy. He shuffles across the hardwood, socks slipping as he waits for a reply. 

** **

“I- I’m glad she did,” Bev says, and he can just hear her smile through the phone. He wishes she were here with him, smiling at him in person. He wishes Ben were here, geeking out over the fuckin- high ceiling in his apartment. 

** **

“Is there- anything else you’ve been talking to her about?” Bev’s voice startles him slightly, but he answers back easily enough.

** **

“Oh yeah sure, I told her all about the extraterrestrial demon clown we fought as children. We had a nice long chat about it before she had me committed.”

** **

“Hmm, hilarious,” she snorts over the line, and Richie grins. 

** **

“All in a day's work sweetheart.” He laughs to himself for a moment and then he sighs, because he knows it’ll just get harder if he keeps it off. 

** **

“I- I’ve told her the important stuff. Nothing- not anything crazy, but like about you guys and, well other stuff. I mean the lying has gotten easier, really-”

** **

“Richie?”

** **

“Yeah Bev?” he asks, and for a moment while she’s quiet on the other end he just listens to her breath, steady and real, and he feels very fragile all of a sudden.

** **

“How are you? Really?”

** **

_Y_ou_ miss him. You miss HIM. You MISS HIM. YOU MISS HIM, DON’T YOU RICHIE?_

** **

“I’m- getting better,” he says, and he hears Bev exhale. She’s relieved, and Richie wants to take it back for a moment, make her feel bad. But he stops and stares at Leo’s tank as he swims lazily around. And realizes that to take it back would be a lie.

** **

“That’s good, that’s really good,” and he knows she means it. She wants him to get better, just like he wants her to have the fairy tale ending she deserves with Ben. He really wished he’d seen that about them sooner. 

** **

“Hey um, I know I haven't been- I know I’ve pretty shit at picking up your calls Bev. And I just-”

** **

“Don’t Rich- don’t apologize to me please. You deserved the time, I get that,” her voice is firm, and Richie nods, remembers they’re speaking over the phone then says-

“Well uh- thanks.”

** **

They don’t talk for much longer. Bev has a meeting with Vogue or some other very important fashion company at eight the next morning, and Richie really has been trying to make sure to get on a better sleep schedule. So they say their goodnights, and Richie promises to call soon, Bev warns him he better, and the call disconnects. 

** **

Another piece falls back into place, and Richie heads to bed.

** **

**~~~**

** **

A couple nights after he calls Bev for the first time, Richie decides it’s finally time to deep clean the kitchen. It’s been on his mind long enough, on the edge of his vision at all times in his apartment. It needs to be done. So he starts with the massive pile of dishes. 

** **

He has a dishwasher, because he owns a modern apartment with modern appliances, but when all of the dishes you own happen to be dirty, one dishwasher just isn't enough to cut it. So he spends 4 hours hand washing the stuff that couldn’t in the dishwasher loads, and it’s boring as fuck, and his hands are raw from the hot water and dawn dish soap, but the fact he can actually eat off a plate again is nice. 

** **

He’s been better about collecting the trash, but there's still some left around. Sticky cartons of rocky road ice cream, styrofoam containers from the taco truck a mile from Richie's place, and few leftover empty boxes of wine. There are fruit flies now, which as far as bugs go there not his worst option, but they're annoying as fuck to deal with as he shoves one thing after another into a heavily filled garbage bag. 

** **

He sweeps, wipes down the counters and he considers mopping until he realizes he doesn’t actually own a mop.

** **

_ Eddie would find that fuckin blasphemous. _

** **

Richie stands there for a moment, then he just- laughs. Can’t really stop, because yeah, Eddie would have had a fucking conniption about a grown man not owning a mop. 

** **

He’d have absolutely lost it at the sight of Richie’s kitchen, wouldn’t have stepped foot in it due to the smell alone. He would probably have kind of like _ Cheers _, he’d say he didn’t, but wouldn’t ever tell Richie to switch shows. He would have liked Jen, and he would have liked Sheila. He’d probably have had a thing or two to say about keeping reptiles around, but Leo would have grown on him because Eddie had always had a soft spot for tiny animals. 

** **

He’d give Richie shit for missing his gigs, and not writing his own material. About letting asshole straight guys write sexist bullshit for his comedy routine. 

** **

At some point Richie realizes he’s stopped laughing. That the large gasps of breath he’s taking are sobs, and his face is slick with tears, and he’s leaning against the counter still holding the broom in his spotless fucking kitchen. 

** **

Yeah, Eddie would have given him a lot of shit for this.

** **

**~~~**

** **

The Street Fighter dreams continue. Richie always loses, always wakes up back in his bed alone, and he really doesn’t have time to care what it’s all about. When November hits, Richie lets Sheila book him new gigs. Well, _ lets _ is a strong word. She strong-arms him into four new shows in L.A, because _ Your money is a finite thing Rich. _He just doesn’t argue with her about it, considering she’s right, and the entertainment industry is a hellscape of chance that Richie very much needs to stay on top of. 

** **

They aren’t the greatest. He stutters and stops his way through his first show back. There are hecklers, and Richie doesn’t even try to fire back, can’t. But it gets better from there. Things usually do with practice.

** **

But he can’t stop thinking about Eddie’s _ I knew it _ when he revealed he didn’t write his own jokes. It’s not like he hadn’t started that way, but he’d gotten too big too fast and he and Sheila had decided that in order to keep up with demand they'd need more of a supply. Richie had thought it was about money at the time because everything was about money in L.A, but he thinks now- he was just scared. Scared of not being good enough, loud enough, funny enough. 

** **

Sheila seems happy though, was a little pissy about the first gig, but not enough to mention it to him. Just told him to get more sleep because he still looked like shit, which he’d replied with _ Yeah _ , _ I love you too _.

** **

Life goes on, and he continues to see Jen, and keeps doing his gigs, and he calls Bev some more, gets to talk to a hyperactive and obviously overjoyed Ben, and the Street Fighter dreams mix in with all of the rest. Richie just lives.

** **

**~~~**

** **

He calls Mike on Thanksgiving. 

** **

He’d gotten a call from Bev and Ben earlier that afternoon as he’d been watching popcorn pop in his microwave. They told him not to overdo it on the Turkey he hadn’t bought, and they hoped he was having a nice holiday, and he thinks suddenly, there was someone else who would probably be alone today.

** **

So he calls Mike, and he’s kind of nervous because he’s dodged more of Mike’s calls then he’d like to admit. And really it’s so dumb, because if any of the Losers understand being alone, it’s Mike Fuckin Hanlon. 

** **

Mike picks up immediately, because he’s a conscientious asshole like that, and Richie is left with nothing to say but-

** **

“Hi.”

** **

“Hey Rich.” 

** **

“I uh, I was just calling to wish you a happy holiday,” Richie says, and he wants to smack himself, because it sounds so forced. Mike deserves more than Richie’s useless niceties. There is a pregnant pause on the other end, and for a moment Richie is absolutely sure Mike has just hung up. And then in the most confused voice Richie has ever heard Mike use before he asks-** **  
** **

“Is it- _ Christmas _already?” 

** **

“No it- it’s Thanksgiving Mike,”and Richie has to take a moment, because he really shouldn’t laugh. Like at all. But he can’t help but let out a snicker, which Mike definitely catches over the line.

** **

“_ Oh _ , I guess I- sorry, I’ve been kind of out of the loop,” Mike sounds sheepish, and Richie is definitely laughing now as he asks- ** **  
** **

“Out of the _ time _loop Mike?”

** **

“It happens to you in Florida.” 

** **

“Ah yes, _ Florida _,” Mike’s laughing too now, and if Richie were willing to admit he’s kinda like definitely giggling. Mike gets quiet soon enough though, like he’s preparing to say something important.

** **

“Happy Thanksgiving Richie- I’m glad you called.”

** **

“Yeah, well I just thinking- ya know, us being the only two Losers with- with no one else to-”

** **

“Thank you Rich, I appreciate that- I do.”

** **

“I am sorry that I haven't- I haven't been picking up the phone more, I’m trying to be better about it.”

“No, hey Rich, it’s okay, _ really _.”

** **

“Yeah? Well, I won’t turn this into a me thing, I called to see how _ you _were doing. And apparently you’ve been so off the grid you’ve lost track of the date. I can only imagine you’ve been having yourself one hell of a party.”

** **

So Mike and he just talk. For over an hour, about anything and everything. Richie mentions Jen and Leo, and Mike talks about how he’s gotten very into hiking, and like living off the land, because _ of course _ he has. Mike says there are a lot of other people doing what he’s doing, traveling across the states on the bare minimum just because they can. He’s meeting so many new people, and learning all these amazing things that aren’t about carnivorous clowns. Richie hadn’t realized before how much Mike could talk, but it’s nice. It’s nice to hear how he’s doing, to laugh about the fire Mike almost started when he tried roasting hotdogs on a spit for the first time. 

** **

Richie ends up having a good Thanksgiving. 

** **

**~~~**

** **

Richie is getting really god damn tired of losing Street Fighter to his 13-year-old self. He’s been playing every night for two months straight and he hasn’t once won a game. He only gets one chance, each night, it’s only one. And then he’s back, more and more frustrated by that stupid fucking game. He considers telling Jen about it, but it somehow feels too close to a non-sane person subject matter. He does call Bill though.

** **

The last person on his list of Losers. 

** **

“Turtles have three sets of eyelids, did you know that?” 

** **

“Hello to you too Richie,” Bill says after the fifth ring. Richie wasn’t sure he’d pick up, had kind of been dreading it really, but hearing Bill’s voice is still- nice.

** **

“Oh I’m sorry, I thought living through two traumatic events together meant we could do away with niceties.”

** **

“Okay- Rich, I’m glad you called, but why at 3 in the morning?” Bill asks, voice obviously rough with sleep, and Richie doesn’t know why he’s being an asshole about this. He thought he’d gotten over his need to alleviate difficult talks using humor with Jen.

** **

“Because my turtle just blinked at me for what I can only assume is the first time, and I needed to tell someone,” Richie mutters, curling his legs up on the couch to watch as Leo relaxed in the light of his heat lamp. 

** **

“You know- Mike would probably love to hear about this-”

** **

“Have you been having- dreams?” There, he’s asked it, and Bill still hasn’t hung up so he apparently doesn’t find Richie all that horribly annoying.

“Yeah Rich- I think we all have,” Bill’s voice audibly softens, and while Richie appreciates what he’s getting at, it isn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for. 

** **

“No I mean- not like bad ones, like- good-weird ones.” Richie should have practiced this. He really should have. 

** **

“What kind of good-weird ones?” Bill sounds suspicious now, which yeah, Richie could in theory be making a really ill-timed sex joke, but this is a serious matter _ Bill _.

** **

“Like- playing Street Fighter in a void with God, good-weird?” Richie asks tentatively, giving Leo the side-eye as he bumps his scaly little head against the glass of his enclosure.

** **

“No Rich, I haven't had any dreams like _ that _,” Bill says, his voice tinged with concern. 

** **

“Cool, cool. I uh, have to go,”

** **

“Rich-”

** **

Richie hangs up. He feels guilty for like a second, then remembers he’s having a crisis because some kind of spectral creature is haunting his dreams with a fucking shitty arcade game. Bev hadn’t mentioned any dreams like that, and he knows she would tell if she had, and if Ben had, Bev definitely would have also told him. Mike was enough of an obsessive he would’ve texted the group chat day one if he had a freaky arcade dream. And now Bill is out, which leaves Richie. 

** **

_ All alone. All ALONE. ALL ALONE RICHIE. _

** **

He grabs a half-empty bottle of bourbon from his liquor cabinet, lands heavily on his couch, and starts an episode of _ Cheers _. He doesn’t sleep that night. 

** **

**~~~**

** **

Richie admits he slips a little. He panics. And he ends up falling back into an old routine he’d worked hard to get out of already. The _ Cheers _marathoning, the drinking, the not picking up the phone. 

** **

But it doesn’t last more than two days, because he _ hates _it. He really does. He knows what he's doing is shitty. Knows that he has a life, and people who care for him, and he was getting better. He was definitely getting better.

** **

So he ends it on the second day. Just pauses his fifteenth episode of Cheers that morning and he calls Sheila and asks to meet for lunch, and she may cuss him out for her three unanswered calls, but she agrees. 

** **

Then Richie cleans again. The kitchen and the living room, and he feeds Leo, and adds freshwater to the tank, and he showers, and he tries, he tries really hard.

** **

He meets Sheila at noon, at a little coffee shop where he knows she loves the pastries. She gets there before him, snacking on a double chocolate muffin, and he smiles at her before sitting down.

** **

“You seem chipper for a man who’s been on a two day bender,” she says, squinting at him over her actually gigantic muffin. 

** **

“I want to start writing my own material.” He says it quickly, but he knows he sounds firm. He had practiced it that way. He knew it was what he wanted. Sheila blinks. She puts down her muffin, and finishes chewing, then is quiet. 

** **

“For like- my shows,” Richie says, leaning forward to make sure she isn’t actually like, choking on her muffin. She shoos him away though, some actual recognition flitting across her features. 

** **

“Yeah I got that- I was just, surprised.”

** **

“It’s nice to see I can still do that,” Richie says with a short abortive laugh, and Sheila’s eyes widen before she says-

** **

“Rich, you are the most chaotic goddamn man I have ever met. If I ever, _ ever _find you predictable, tell my wife to lock me up.” 

** **

He stares at her a moment, and then he’s laughing, like really horrible guffaws are coming out of him, and he’s sure people are looking at the homeless-looking guy losing it, but he can’t care. Sheila’s laughing too, more dignified, but still. She’s laughing too.

** **

It takes them a minute to really calm down, for Richie to get rid of the stitch in his side, but when he finally does, he has to ask.

** **

“Alright, alright- but, what _ do _ you think? About me writing my own jokes?” Sheila looks at him, that same looking _ look _she’d given him months ago, and he doesn’t feel so raw this time, just- cared for. It takes her a moment to answer, but Richie isn’t nervous, he knows she’s just trying to pull the words together. 

** **

“Rich we’ve been working together, for what- eight years now? The best show I ever heard you play was in that dinky little Chinatown comedy club. When you told me you wanted to spend more time doing shows rather than writing material, I was weak- you made a lot of money for me fast, so I let it slide. But Rich, I didn’t become your agent for the shitty girlfriend jokes, I became your agent because you’re fucking smart when you’re honest. So yeah, get your head out of your ass and write your own material again. ”

** **

“I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” It’s not even a joke really, it takes a lot for someone like Sheila to say something that open. Richie knows, because she’s his favorite kind of person. 

** **

“And God willing it’ll be the last nice thing I say to you until you can show me actual jokes,” she says, taking another bite into her muffin, chewing in mock annoyance and Richie just grins at her.

** **

“I won’t let you down coach!” He says with a mock salute, and she levels him with unamused expression. 

** **

“Mhmm, well before I forget, Luce wants you over for dinner this weekend. I’ll have you know it was not my idea, because I know you’re like a stray dog and you won’t stop coming around if we feed you.”

** **

“I’ll uh-” 

** **

_ What’ll the excuse be than Tozier? Hot date? Running a marathon? Another extraterrestrial to fight in a sewer? _

** **

“I’ll be there. I will buy non-box wine, just for you,” he says, waving off Sheila’s protest as he picks up her bill for the muffin. 

** **

“I’m charmed, really,” she mumbles, but it's with a smile, so Richie has feeling she kind of is. 

** **

**~~~**

** **

It’s when he finishes the last episode of Cheers that following night, that Richie realizes what it is he needs to do. 

** **

Richie goes to sleep, and he meets with _ Him _one more time.

** **

The void is no less large and foreboding than the last time he was here three days ago. But it does seem less solid, less black. It feels like something he can say goodbye to. 

** **

_ He’s _there. Where he always starts. Wearing Richie’s face, free of time, and looking as expectant as the first time they’d done this. Richie stands, but he does not move from his spot.

** **

“I need you to let me go,” he doesn’t ask, he just says, just believes it. _ He _just shakes his head. 

** **

Richie’s not having it though.

** **

“I appreciate whatever this has been, I really do. But- it’s time we stop this.” _ He _doesn’t move, and like that first night, all those weeks ago, continues to hold out the token. 

** **

“I know you have something to do with whatever happened in Derry, and you may not be _ IT _ , but you’re still- you’re holding onto the past. And- I know _ I _ have the ability to move on, so- so can you,” Richie says, and he’ll admit he is pleading at this point. _ He _ shakes his head, and holds out the token. 

** **

Finally, Richie relents.

** **

“This is it, I swear,” Richie mutters, with a glare in _ His _ direction, grabbing the proffered token and shoving it into the machine. Richie selects Ryu, _ He _selects Ken, and they’re off.

** **

It’s different though. Richie doesn’t feel so leaden, doesn’t feel so old. He maneuvers the joystick with ease, can press the red button to his left as fast as he wants, and he’s actually doing okay.

** **

The game drags on. Longer then Richie’s ever been able to manage against _ Him _, and it feels great. To win at a game he loved so dearly as a kid. 

** **

Then he remembers. So suddenly he almost lets go of the joystick. The cheat, the one Eddie and him had found and held over the Losers heads for years. And so he does it, without taking his eyes off the screen, and despite what it probably means, Richie feels like it’s justice. He deserves one fucking win.

And then Richie wakes up. 

** **

Except, when he opens his eyes, it’s not to his bedroom, but to the filthy inside of the dilapidated Capitol Theater arcade. 

** **

Weak light is pouring through musty glass, and the whole place smells like dust, and years and years of burnt popcorn.

Richie doesn’t move, just looks down into his cupped hand and sees a token. 

** **

His token. 

** **

And it clicks. The moment. Street Fighter and the token, and the clothes Richie’s wearing that were ruined 7 months ago in Derry’s sewer system. Covered in blood, and greywater, and horrible, horrible memories.

** **

Richie grapples with the phone he knows is stuffed deep in his back pocket, and then he’s scrolling and scrolling until he reaches an old, _ new _ contact. He presses call and waits. It rings once. Twice. Three times-

** **

“It’s not really a great time right now Rich-” and Richie hangs up.

** **

He looks down at his phone and sees _ Call With Eddie Kaspbrak Ended _. 

** **

He presses call again and waits. It picks up immediately this time.

** **

“I swear to god if this a fucking prank dickwad, the clowns not gonna be the thing to murder you,” Eddie’s voice comes out clipped, and anxious and Richie has never heard anything so amazing in his entire fucking life.

** **

“Richie? For fucks sake, please fucking say something,” Eddie’s voice comes over the line panicked, and Richie wants to laugh. Because Edward Kaspbrak is worried about him. _ Him _.

** **

“Sorry- sorry- I just, I got my token. I- wanted to check in,” Richie’s not sure if he’s making sense, he’s shaking and trying not to cry over the phone because yeah, Eddie would definitely freak. 

** **

_ Because Eddie can freak out. Because Eddie is alive. Because . Eddie. Is. Alive. _

** **

“Oh- er, I’m still waiting for my prescription to-”

** **

“I’ll meet you, you’re at the drugstore right?” Richie doesn’t even think, just marches out the doors of the arcade

** **

“Yeah but Rich, Mike said-,”

** **

“Pardon my language but Fuck what Mike said, I’ll meet you in ten,” he hangs up, because who the fuck cares, he’s going to be talking to the man in ten minutes.

** **

_ Ten Minutes. Ten Minutes. You can run faster than that! _

** **

But before he can take another step, another frantic, hopeful step, he turns back to the arcade. 

  
“ _ Thank you _ ,” he’s says it quietly, like a prayer, and then Richie is running, running and laughing and ready to change the future.


End file.
